


Ready to Suffer, Ready to Hope

by meltokio



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 00:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10865475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltokio/pseuds/meltokio
Summary: A collection of complete Rhyiona garbage.





	1. This shit is never gonna be like the movies.

"You ever gonna tell me what you meant by ‘someone else?’ Or are we going to pretend that never happened?"

If the lack of response is any indication, he seems eager to forget. But they’ve got nothing but time, waiting out a sandstorm in an abandoned garage. The Vault had been booby-trapped, rigged with some kind of sophisticated teleportation device that they’d managed to trigger just by opening the chest on the dais. Fiona really should have anticipated something of the sort. It wasn’t called the Vault of the _Traveler_ for no reason.

Even if Rhys seems disinclined to dredge up whatever confession he’d been trying to make just moments before they’d both been thrown to the ass-end of the Badlands, Fiona won’t surrender to half-measures. Not after she’d hated the guy for a year, assumed he’d been dead until she’d heard the news that Atlas resurrected with some ex-Hyperion douche at its helm. She’d been a weird combination of ecstatic and livid that day. Even Sasha seemed surprised.

Either way, the minute Fiona’s got transportation, she’s off and away from Pandora. Away from all the shitty memories and the cynicism and the bitterness that always wrestled with her inherent optimism. She’d be off to find a place that’d be kinder to her. She’d have to leave Vaughn and Loaderbot and Gortys behind. She’d have to leave Rhys behind. And that should have been the easiest thing, but he went and told her he was into _‘someone else.’_ There it was: the happy/pissed combo. It makes her want to punch him in the neck again.

And she almost does, figures she’ll aim for that weird circular tattoo there, when she loses all of that pent-up frustration. They’re never going to have a peaceful resolution; they’re not the types to sit down and hash out their feelings like normal people. They’d seen the worst of the universe, done their fair share of terrible things. She remembers the shocked look on his face when she told him she shot Finch in cold blood. The way her fists clenched up when he got to the part about pulling the port out of his skull. They are both so torn up and broken, ragged at the edges where they’ve torn themselves apart.

This shit is never gonna be like the movies.

That hideous tie would have really come in handy for the next part.

The lapels of his jacket work fine in any case as she grabs them, curls her fingers and tugs until he’s at her level, closes her eyes and careens into a kiss. The worst she’s ever given, there’s nothing sultry or seductive or gentle. It’s just the capstone in a year and a half worth of inner turmoil. The lies, the disappointment. All of that death. Enough bickering and low-blow insults to fill volumes. And, for some reason, she’s still kissing him. In fact, she doesn’t really want to stop.

This ranks high on her list of _‘giant fuck-ups.’_ It’s going to make it that much harder to leave.


	2. Board Meeting

His office is always so cold, but he insists it’s just her ‘hot-head.’ She’d allow that the suggestion is clever but would never admit it. Even after everything there’s still some sort of protocol to maintain. She’d die before she let on that she thinks he’s funny.

She shows up, still dirt-caked and bleeding from a bullet-graze that got through her shields, tracking desert dust through pristine hallways as his employees scatter in her wake. Vault hunters don’t just show up unannounced, armed to the teeth and sauntering like she owns the place. Even the secretary sitting sentry outside his door looks uncomfortable, picking a cuticle as Fiona lies her way through the door to the presidential office. _‘He’s expecting me.’ ‘We have business to discuss.’ ‘Do i look like I got a lot of time? Open the goddamn door.’ ‘If you say the word “appointment” one more time…’_

The inner sanctum looks like a tin can, and at the center sits the company man; the subject of her ire and the recipient of her most caustic moods. She’s shocked he hasn’t gone grey yet from her influence alone. He hardly looks surprised to see her (maybe he was warned ahead of time?), and the smile he greets her with is enough to smooth her frustration a bit.

"I told your secretary we had a meeting." She crosses the room to straddle his lap, arms slide around his shoulders and she presses her forehead to his. "I don’t think she believed me." A devilish grin before her lips are on his neck, brushing and nibbling at the circuit tattoo there. "I need a new shotgun." Another kiss. "And rocket launcher ammo." Another kiss. "Think you can swing that?" When she gets her desired answer she moves to his mouth, lavishes a kiss so slow and languid and generous that she surprises herself.

She’s peeling her jacket off her shoulders when his secretary’s voice chimes in over the intercom. "You have a conference call with Mr. Corcoran in ten minutes, Mr. President."

Fiona’s first instinct is to shoot the interruption and the little box it came from, but she just shrugs and smiles, tugs her sleeves back on and leaves him one kiss to last until their next _“meeting.”_

At his door she turns to toss him a wink and a grin, hip cocked to one side and eyebrow perked. "Catch you later, Mr. President."


	3. Gold

Sometimes the yellow catches her off-guard, a violent, sinister glow peeking out in a sliver from a cracked eyelid. it smacks of Hyperion: the patron saint of greed. it makes him look older, sharper. all of the angles on his face keen and cold in a way they never were when his eye was blue. After Helios’ fall they’d both changed, regressed into selfish, angry shells of who they’d been before. Rhys’ shift is just more obvious. Gold and chrome to her red and black. His frigid sheen a stark contrast to her rusted blood.

Even with his eyes closed she sees the subtle differences. Lips pulled downward in an unconscious frown. his brow wrinkles and smooths as she watches him fight some sleep battle. The port at his temple is as new as his arm, but the skin around it looks puckered and ragged and scarred. The remnants of a hack job performed in desperation. While she killed her friend he’d torn himself apart. They’d spent weeks together, crammed into a space too tight for their crew, at each other’s throats half the time. Every waking moment in one another’s faces for days on end, and then horrifically, agonizingly alone.

At least she had Sasha.

Rhys faced his demons by himself.

She props herself up on her elbows, knits her brows and places the ghost of a kiss against his temple, as if by childhood magic she could heal the skin with tenderness. And, just as tears don’t bring back the dead, affection doesn’t heal wounds.

"I should’ve been there," she whispers against his skin, low enough not to wake him. "I’m sorry you had to do that alone."


	4. R&B

Fiona's developed a taste for champagne — an expensive one. She sparkles her orange juice and drops strawberries into pricey, fluted glasses. She relishes the bubble-burn in the back of her throat, the fizz and the giggle of alcoholic effervescence. It’s like taking something you don’t deserve: delicious and forbidden. Girls with dirt and blood caked in their nailbeds shouldn’t drink champagne, but she does it away out of spite.

And it tastes really, REALLY good.

Every so often she’ll show up at Rhys’ door and declare a holiday weekend, curl up on his couch and watch television as he jabbers away in conference calls or organizes his business card collection. Like tradition, she always manages to commandeer one of his long-sleeved, ill-fitting button-downs, so loose and generous on her that she’s always baring a freckled shoulder or a peek of cleavage. Accidentally on purpose, of course. Every good scammer knows her best assets.

It’s barely the middle of the afternoon and she’s already buzzing, giddy and smiling in a way she never does when she’s sober. Rhys is occupied, swiping through files and correspondence on the holographic interface of his cybernetic hand as she looks on in disinterest. This corporate shit has always bored her to tears but in a rare instance of idle affection, she’s running turquoise-tipped fingers through his hair as he concentrates.

"Hey, babe. Mind if i put on the radio?"

A subtle shrug is his only response and it’s good enough for her. She crosses the room to fiddle with the high-tech device on the kitchenette counter, turning dials and pressing buttons until a civilian pop station filters through in high-definition. There’s a quick message from their sponsors (ATLAS, go figure) before a synthetic, sultry rhythm starts — all low bass and crooning vocals. She grins, familiar, the mischievous smile of indulging in a guilty pleasure.

It’s innate the way she starts to move, sways to the lulls and hits every beat, lazy and easy as if she’s been dancing her whole life instead of stealing. With the biggest, cheekiest grin she makes her way back to the couch, learning that she (embarrassingly) knows every single word and is tipsy enough not to be ashamed. She must look like an ass, aiming a faux-sultry gaze toward her (gobsmacked) partner as she climbs astride his lap like a coquette. She slides her shoulders to the swing, wraps two pinstripe-clad arms around his neck to mouth silent declarations of love in time with the lyrics. An upbeat verse has her threading her fingers through his hair just to muss it up the way she likes before she gives him a lipstick kiss as an insincere apology.

For the last chorus she pulls her punches, rotates her hips and presses her forehead against his; a stark moment of earnest heat in this interlude of alluring pantomime. His reaction sends a wave of warmth from her navel to the apples of her cheeks. The mood shifts left of center as hands run along her bare thighs and to the small of her back. The song comes to a close with her fingers tugging at the buttons of her stolen shirt and his lips on her neck.

The next time she hears that song she’s riding shotgun in a technical, feet on the dashboard and a rosy blush on her cheeks.


	5. Stellar

"That one reminds me of you."

And she makes her point with a jab toward the star-blanketed sky, directing his gaze toward a constellation she’s forgotten the name of. Of she squints it sort of reminds her of a dragonfly or a malnourished rakk. She can’t help the grit-teeth giggle that follows; unable to keep a straight face after her second round of _‘never have I ever.’_ (Terrible game to play with Hyperions. They don’t tend to get out much.)

"It looks like a jerk." She only means it a little; Rhys looks nothing like a constellation. stars are peaceful and passive. Rhys is closer to a meteor or an asteroid, in the best and the worst way.  
They’ve never been peaceful with one another. There’s always been a goal to strive for or an argument to hash out. It’s a tug of war, they're each dug into the ground with bleeding hands gripping a rope that couldn’t care less. There’s no winning between them. Just the constant struggle. But this is one, blinking moment of serenity. No cursing. No sniping. No shields or swords. Just two people laying on their backs in the middle of the desert, watching shooting stars arc across the black of space.

The constant warfare is exhausting. Soon enough her eyelids are sliding shut with every few breaths. Staying lucid and talkative is a chore best left to someone who hasn’t been climbing uphill for nearly a year. So she turns to her side, curls into a comma with her forehead against his sleeve. The comforting element is odd at first but it starts to make sense. They’ve been at each other’s throats for so long they forgot that they’ve been at each other’s sides as well.

Fiona sleeps deeper than she has in months.


	6. MPH

She takes it as high praise to be considered a vagabond. After being stuck in one place for so long it feels like a medal of honor clipped on her lapel. Staying put’s for steady people and Fiona has always felt half-out of her own skin, desperate to be a hundred miles away at any given time. She aims to be a tornado: carving her way through the landscape, picking up what she wants and discarding what she doesn’t. It’s a dream she’s been chasing ever since she could remember, now firmly within her manicured grasp. She won’t give that up for anyone — even Rhys.

And this is the fun part, anyway. The uncertainty and the flirting. She’s got to make herself rare, draw this tumult out as long as she can. Domesticity goes stale. Absence make the heart grow fonder. Makes the reunions that much more intense.

She smooths a stray lock of his hair back into place, steeling herself against the urge to dishevel that well-groomed façade even further. Fiona doesn’t give him a window to speak because she knows if he asks her to stay she will in a heartbeat. She may have a drifter’s heart but it’s a soft one, too.

"I’ll be in touch."


	7. Mutual

She is sick to death of unforeseen circumstances.

This was supposed to be cathartic; a chance to unwind and clear the air after several tense weeks (months, if she were to count the intermission after the fall). They’d have a few drinks, laugh it up. It was not supposed to end in tears. It was not supposed to end like this.

It’s not right for someone who’s lied their entire life to value honesty; to see and acknowledge the strength in vulnerability. She’s too well-armed and fierce to be soft and accommodating, but within her there is a need to protect stronger than her penchant for anger. It’s heroic and noble (just about the only bit of her that is) but it’s also damning. So she does what she thinks is best. She’s liquor-fed and affection-starved. Dangerous combination.

She’ll take the blame for this later.

The metal hand on her neck is cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the tender way he looks at her. Her own fingers find their way into his hair, comb through wisps at the nape too naturally for her to be comfortable with. She watches his lips as they shape a gentle nickname and realizes all she wants to do is feel them again.

And, as if he’d heard her thoughts, he complies.

His mouth tastes like tears. Shockingly appropriate, considering the nature of this lapse of judgment. They’re both just looking for a way out; a happy distraction. Self-medicating with with one another. He needs someone and she needs to be needed. Mutually beneficial; mutually destructive.

Fiona sweeps her thumbs over his cheeks, brushes away tears before they fall any further.

The hangover is going to be killer.


	8. Ink

The ink was a surprise.

If she were being tested, and the question was “ _what do you think is under Rhys’ shirt?_ ”, tattoos would get stricken from the lineup immediately. “ _Probably some weird robot shit_ ” would have been her choice. At the very least birdcage ribs and sharp hips with the moon-pale skin spacers tended to have stretched taut over the angles. Nothing to write home about. But he got dragged into Prosperity Junction spitting insults with his city-slicker coiffure and flashy chrome buttons and just the bare glimpse of true blue stark against his chest. The revelation had earned an incredulous perk of her brow and a flat, internal _“huh.”_

But now they elicit a very different response.

She’s got no problem smearing her lipstick all over them (and anywhere else she happens to put her lips), laughs low and teasing at the sharp inhales and shaky exhales, makes a mental note at the sensitive spots. Targets. The one on his neck is practically a bulls eye, a critical hit when she runs her tongue along the circuit, reaps the reward of his fingers digging into her hips. Holding on for dear life.

How sweet it is.

Now they lay in silence, tangled in limbs and bed sheets. Fiona’s too exhausted to give a shit about getting up and out, running off to maintain that imperative distance. Putting her bra on and buckling into her boned vest seems like a Herculean task so she just props herself up on one elbow, taps a finger against the ink on his chest.

"Did this hurt?" The way it sits on the bone looks painful, just cellophane-thin skin and the minuscule highway of capillaries. He shrugs his answer as if to imply it’s no big deal. It’s a combination of these little surprises, traits and variables that she can’t glean from a quick glance. The body art, the arm, the resolve, the unmitigated gall. It’s infuriating (but, really, what about him isn’t?) and it’s interesting. She can only grin, visibly impressed. She’ll give him this much. At least no one else can see her concede.

But she’s tired of the heavy silences, Rhys going all introspective and navel-gazey while she desperately tries to keep things light. Everything only really falls into place when they’re in the thick of it, mouths too busy for small talk, working together like they used to — with a mutual goal in mind. And if she doesn’t treat it like a mission, with every ounce of competitiveness, playing a stacked deck against a broke house, then she might slip up and see it for what it is. Desperation. Escape. Companionship. She can’t help but to obfuscate the truth of the matter. It is in her nature to lie.

So she does her damndest to get his head back in the game, slides her leg up and over to shift gears, rolls her hips with malicious intent as she settles into place. She eases forward on her elbows, the space of a breath away from his lips, ducks her head away just as he lifts his chin to meet her there. She sighs a laugh: she can be infuriating too.

Her mouth finds purchase on the ridge of his collarbone, lavishes whisper-soft kisses against the skin, nips a fingerprint of beet-red blood brushing the surface. Even when her lips are naked she still leaves her mark; her own lurid ink. Maybe with evidence he’ll be forced to acknowledge this self-indulgent sideshow of an affair. Maybe he’ll call this off before they dig themselves in any deeper.

Maybe he’ll stop holding her face when he kisses her; treating her gentle in a way that makes her heart swell up so big it might crack her ribs.

Best case scenario.

Fingers crossed.


	9. Fumble

“What did we do last night?”

She’s so suddenly angry that she stops what she’s doing, panties not quite hooked over her knees. She has to bite back something sharp like bile in her throat. Fiona’s always short-tempered (moreso than usual) after a night of drinking. And because God has a sense of humor, this morning (cruelly early if the pink-blue light leaking, diffused from the sheet curtains is of any indication) she doesn’t wake up alone.

He has the audacity to ask what they did.

_We made a big damn mistake is what we did._

But she holds her tongue, stands to finish dressing, thighs aching as they always do after spending time wrapped around someone’s waist. Usually it’s a good kind of ache, something that makes her grin like she knows a secret. But now she just feels tired. And her neck is sore. And her mouth is sour. And her chest hurts. And her lipstick is smeared all over her chin and all over his neck.

She shrugs into her bra, pulls on her undershirt and foregoes the vest (the cinched waist might actually make her hurl and she’s already reached her quota for self-loathing for today). She works her way into her trousers and slips on her boots as Rhys trips over his words. Her lips are set in a grim line. She wipes smudged makeup off on her sleeve so that it leaves a black inkblot against the white linen.

"You know damn well what we did," she says, voice coarse from sleep and drink. Fiona’s got her belongings in one arm and her hat between her fingers. Her dignity and self-respect lay in a crumpled heap next to some condom wrappers on the floor.

She’s almost out the door when she murmurs, more to herself than to him: "Let’s not make this a thing."

She can’t bear to look at him before she leaves.


	10. Collision

The second time is a little less catastrophic.

They still collide like trains at full speed, fumble with buckles and buttons and belts and zippers until Fiona almost sprains her ankle trying to get out of her boots. He catches her with the metal arm and the joints pinch the skin against her ribs until she cusses. He mumbles an apology against her cheek while she rubs away the blood bruise with a laugh.

They smile into kisses and bite each others lips until the giggles turn to growls, push each other’s buttons and prod at preferences like it’s a competition. He slaps her ass so hard she squeals. She grinds against him until he practically begs for mercy.

All bets are off when they call a truce, settle into motion with Fiona in his lap, rocking her hips with her forehead against his. All the bullshit and the ifs and the maybes die out one by one, battered into obscurity against whispered, breathless _‘I love you’_ s and _‘you’re beautiful’_ s and _‘I need you’_ s. Fingers tracing reverent lines over muscle and bone and tattoo ink. Every so often she’ll stop moving to let him breathe, to kiss him open-mouthed and hold his face in her hands. He coaxes her on by pressing his lips against her throat and calling her baby.

When it’s all said in done she lays pressed against his chest, heartbeats thudding out of time with each other. She can feel him try to work at bed-tangles in her mess of hair. She catches a bead of sweat from his neck with her tongue. To complete the cycle of carnage he’ll have to wash her hair with one hand as she hums some drunken hymn, then they’ll sleep it off and she’ll be gone before the sun is up.

She doesn’t plan on doing the last part this time.

"Shower?"


	11. 5.0

 

**I.**

"Don’t take this the wrong way."

A pitiful segue into a huge mistake. She jumps ahead of him on nimble feet, gives him a half-hearted look of sympathy before tugging at his (disgusting) tie and bringing their lips together in something miles away from a kiss. There’s no romance, no prelude, no butterflies. Just her hands firm on either side of his head, holding him in place until the bounty hunter’s heavy-footed steps recede down the alleyway.

Fiona opens her eyes briefly before cutting him loose, notices a dusty rose against his pale cheeks. _How cute._  She drops her hands without ceremony and puts them on her hips, shrugs by way of apology and explanation.

"I panicked."

**II.**

So, their first vault didn’t go according to plan. Totally fit with the overall theme of their journey thus far, though. Fiona can appreciate the continuity. The chest on the dais wasn’t a chest in the strictest sense. Rather, it served more like a door — one that led to some winding labyrinth with the _real_  treasure dead-center. At least the Eridians had a sense of humor.

After several agonizing hours attempting to navigate the hell-maze, she stops just short of another, even larger chest. Her hand shoots out to grasp his sleeve, earning herself a glimpse of the famous _“Rhys pout.”_

"Wait a sec. We don’t know what this will do."

It could be another portal, leading even further into the vault. This pattern could go on forever; an infinite loop of doors. It sounds like a twisted morality tale: two treasure seekers lured into a trap by their own greed.

Maybe she’s getting a little ahead of herself — maybe she’s still riding a high of adrenaline and fear all mixed up into something that’s got her thinking in broad, messy strokes. Whatever it is, it pushes her against his chest and up on her toes; thumbs brush against his smooth, chiseled jawline (he really is a good-looking guy…) and once more, with feeling this time, she kisses him. Her eyes shut tight against the worry gathering like a storm cloud in her stomach, searching for some sort of assurance that this isn’t where their story ends.

Her own sentimentality surprises her about as much as the hands on her waist she lingers for just a moment more, committing the scene to memory, scratching that final itch before taking a leap of faith.

When they part, she smiles, nods once to bolster their resolves.

"Third time’s a charm?"

**III.**

"It’s high — "

"If you say ' _high noon_ ' I’m going home."

Fiona shoots him a look so cold and withering he glances away. "It’s high _time_  you learned how to shoot properly. That shock stick isn’t gonna do jack shit for crowd control." She nods toward the submachine gun in his hands. "That’s a gift from Moxxi. It, uh, might start vibrating."

"Why — ?"

"Just aim and shoot, Robo Boy. Be careful."

His first attempt is pretty abysmal, misses the Jack-shaped dummy by several yards. He blames the sudden, vigorous vibration emanating from the stock.

"Hold it steady against your shoulder. Don’t grit your teeth." She smiles and nods when he changes up his grip, lifts her chin as a go-ahead to give it another shot.

Rhys wastes half the magazine on empty air but soon enough the straw dummy is ablaze. She gives him a prim round of applause as he punches the air. He sets the Good Touch against a crate and falls into a creaky plastic lawn chair. Fiona digs through her rucksack for two sticks and a bag of marshmallows, arranges their snack before passing Rhys his. She braces herself against the cracked armrest before pressing a chaste, proud kiss to his cheek.

"You’re a natural."

**IV.**

"What are you thinking about?"

"Home. Wondering if I’ll ever go back."

Fiona props herself up on one elbow to look at him, his pale-moon face illuminated by Elpis at its zenith. "What’s stopping you?"

"I dunno. Feels like I’d be a stranger there." He shrugs his shoulders, puts both arms behind his head as he considers the stars, brow wrinkled like he’s trying to read the answer in the constellations.

When his gaze flickers back to her she smiles, bathed in the golden glow of his left eye. Fiona combs her fingers through the hair at his temple. "Whatever you wanna do, I’m behind you a hundred percent."

"I’d come back."

She stops any further explanation by leaning close, capturing lips parted mid-sentence with her own, slow and comfortable and inevitable. "I know. You always find your way back to me."

**V.**

"I’m just — " he rubs a familiar spot behind his neck, "worried. A lot can happen in space."

"Trust me, Rhys. I know." Scooter’s memory is still fresh enough to sting.

"Will we be able to comm each other at least?"

"Yeah, if I’m in range." She tosses another box of ammunition into her suitcase. "Dionysus isn’t some remote place. I’ll be in touch."

"Okay." But the downward slope of his mouth says otherwise.

She quirks a brow, voice drops into a sultry murmur. "You could always come with me."

"I can’t leave, Fi. I’m in the middle of — "

" — negotiations," she finishes with a threadbare smile. They’ve both got business to attend to. They can’t have expected the honeymoon phase to last forever. "I’ll be back before you know it."

Fiona reads dissatisfaction in his smile. Her own grin falls apart as she crosses the room, slides her arms around his waist and presses her cheek to his chest. She feels organic fingers card through her hair, the cold metal of his arm against her thin blouse.

"I’ll miss you."

"I’ll miss you too."

Instinct tells her to pull away, but then his hands are on her cheeks and and they share one shallow breath between them before lips are on lips; fingers in hair and palms sliding under fabric, feet lifted off the ground so that legs can wrap around angular hips.

They confess their regrets in searing kisses and lingering, heavy-lidded looks; the way they fit perfectly — two halves of a fractured whole before fate and duty breaks them apart again.

Later, when she rests her head against his heartbeat, tracing his tattoos with her finger, she wonders why the last time felt so much like the first.


End file.
